


Road Noise

by lindmere



Category: Shortland Street, Small Town Saturday Night
Genre: Crossover, Crossover Pairings, Domestic Violence, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-14
Updated: 2012-01-14
Packaged: 2017-10-29 11:54:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/319626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lindmere/pseuds/lindmere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sooner or later, you end up at the hotel bar at 1 AM. Features Rhett Ryan (Chris Pine's character from Small Town Saturday Night) and Jamie Forrest (Karl Urban's character from Shortland Street). You don't have to be familiar with either, just picture Chris and Karl. For purposes of not introducing time travel, I'm assuming it's now-ish and they're both in their late 20s.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Road Noise

It’s 1 AM and I don’t know what city I’m in, but it’s not my fault, even if I am sitting in a bar.

The bar’s in middle of a hotel, and the hotel is in some town in Georgia, but I’ll be fucked if I know which one. I could ask the bartender, but she’d probably cut me off. Ask the businessmen in the rumpled suits and I’m just opening myself up for hearing about their boring jobs and how much they miss their wives.

Atlanta? I think it’s Atlanta.

“What can I get you, hon?” The bartender doesn’t make eye contact. Not good for tips, but she’s spending most of her time mopping the bar, counting the minutes until she can go home.

“Beer,” I say, and then remember what kind of place I’m in. “Uh, Coors. And a shot of Jack.”

The hotel is actually a treat. Most nights I’m rocked to sleep by the highway, feet hanging off the end of the bunk, hoping the road noise will drown out Rex Hardiston’s snoring. Tomorrow’s a day off, so I get to wake up in a real bed and order room service and watch ESPN until my brain melts. The guitar’s in my room but it’s staying in the case, so fuck yeah, it’s a mini-vacation.

The Hardistons are three brothers and brother-in-law subbing for brother number four, who’s been in the slammer for five years. For the first week I thought they got along pretty well, at least until I started picking up on all the weird undercurrents: Rory (the big one) married Rance (the jailed one)’s ex. Rex got saved but doesn’t care about booze or women, as long as you don’t take the Lord’s name in vain around him. Dave (the brother-in-law) has five kids with Retta Hardiston plus a wandering eye, but the brothers watch him like a hawk, so he gets quietly drunk and gambles.

Middle-aged women who’ve loved the Hardistons since they were teenagers show up to see them at mid-sized venues and state fairgrounds. I’m supposed to be the reason they bring along their daughters and pay $25 for a T-shirt with a picture of me in tight jeans, shot from behind.

I can almost hear my buddies Dwayne and Wade laughing, except they wouldn’t. They’d be happy for me, and proud they helped me get famous. I send them stuff from the road I think would crack them up: a T-shirt from Butts & Bones Barbecue in Abilene, a refrigerator magnet with an alligator climbing out of a toilet. When I get back to Nashville I’ll ask them to visit and they won’t. They’ll never leave Prospect and we all know it, but they can live it a little bit through me.

It’s exhausting and dull, all those hours bumping over highways, except for the hour I spend on stage, pretty girls in low-cut tops crowding the stage while their parents are still in the beer line.

Still, it’s a great opportunity--that’s what I tell all the magazines. I must have said it twenty times at least:  _The Hardistons are legends, and it’s an honor for me to share the stage with them._ The Powers That Be in country music love that shit, respect for tradition and your elders. A boy can sing about making love in the back of a pickup and eyefuck your daughter as long as he calls you “sir” when he comes off stage. Elvis had it figured out.

I’m lucky I don’t have to fake it. Mom and dad raised me right, even if it was on the wrong coast and I only sound like a country boy when I sing. That’s another reason I need the Hardistons; they’re like a direct transfusion of Carolina barbecue sauce.

The bartender slaps the drinks down in front of me and I almost don’t have energy to down the shot, but it’s sleep in a little two-ounce glass. I’m halfway through the beer when a stranger takes the seat next to me.

“What’ll it be, hon?”

“A jug of beer, please.”

The bartender’s eyebrows raise and I turn to look at the guy with the weird accent. He’s unusual looking, definitely foreign, with pale skin and black hair and almond-shaped eyes.

“Sorry,” he says, realizing he’s getting stared at. “A pint, then. You do pints here, am I right?”

The bartender nods, uninterested. I glance at the tap, making sure she doesn’t serve the poor guy some kind of Belgian shit. He looks exhausted, dark smudges under his eyes and his shirt tail half out.

“Cheers,” the guy says, and takes a good-sized gulp. I wait for him to swallow.

“So, what are you--English?”

He snorts. “Not for 100 years or so.” He can tell I don’t get it. “I’m from New Zealand.”

American geography sucks, and the way they teach it in Monroe County sucks extra hard. I squint, trying to picture it.

“Go down to Australia and turn left,” he says. “If you hit icebergs, you’ve gone too far.”

“Right. The place with all the mountains, in that movie with the trolls.”

“Yes, we’re particularly known for our trolls.”

He’s a little too quick for me, tired as I am and with a night-night dose of alcohol in me, but I slide my eyes around my glass to look him up and down. I like figuring people out, and he doesn’t fit--not a backpacker in this semi-upscale hotel, not a businessman, not with that rumpled green shirt and khakis. There’s an ID dangling around his neck, but I can’t really read it in the dim light, nothing except JAMIE in big letters.

“Sorry, I wasn’t trying to be insulting. I don’t know much about that part of the world.” Or any part of the world that doesn’t start with P or have a sound system.

The silence is easy, but after another minute, I give up. I want to hear him talk again.

“You’ve come a long way. You here for a conference or something?”

“Yup. International AIDS conference.”

Well, that’s a conversation killer. “You a doctor?” It’s a shot in the dark; he looks much too young, almost baby faced.

“No, I’m with an NGO.” Still lost. “A non-profit. I’m an educator.”

“Hey, that’s--” My brain goes places that are probably rude and 10 years out of date, but I can’t help it. The guy is well groomed and good looking and smells a little too nice for 1 AM. And his day job is teaching kids how to put condoms on bananas or something--well, a guy has to wonder.

“That’s great,” I say at last, and decide to shut my idiot mouth.

He starts to say something else but then another guy walks up, tall and blond and a little leathery, like a surfer.

“There you are,” the guy says to Jamie. “Jesus Christ, I’ve been hanging about for hours. No answer on your cell, me thinking you’re lying in a ditch somewhere and instead you’re right here, having a beer, calm as you like.”

The guy has the same accent as Jamie, but the difference is that I hate him. He doesn’t sound angry like he’s upset, he sounds angry like he’s been crossed. He’s up in Jamie’s personal space, and Jamie isn’t giving an inch.

“I told you I’d be back when I got back. It’s been a long day, all right? I needed to unwind.”

The blond guy’s gaze flicks to me. “Oh, I bet you did.”

“Hey, now--” Jamie puts his hands up, the  _calm down_  gesture that never works. “Sorry, I’m sorry. Let’s not have this argument here.”

“Why? You don’t want all these good people to know what an untrustworthy little bugger you are?” The guy’s voice is low, but full of venom. This isn’t an old argument getting rehashed, it’s something ugly coming to a head. If there’s one thing Prospect made me an expert in, it’s the countless ways people can fuck with each other.

“I said,  _not here_.” They’re chest-to-chest now, glaring at each other, and the bored bartender is finally paying attention.

“Gentlemen, I’m going to have to ask you--”

“Yeah, yeah. We were just leaving. Pay the lady and come upstairs,  _now_.”

Jamie pulls a handful of bills from his pocket and throws them on the bar without looking at them. “No.”

“For fuck’s sake.” The blond guy looks like he’s going to explode, and the bartender reaches for the phone. I don’t know if nice hotels have the kind of security that can control a guy like this.

Blond Guy doesn’t look at her; he keeps his attention on Jamie. If he’s going to blow, this will be the moment, when his authority is questioned. I can feel the muscles in my shoulder bunch up, getting ready to jump aside or maybe punch the blond guy in the nose, because I really, really hate his bullying tone.

There’s an airless moment where his gaze flicks from the bartender to Jamie to me, and then he makes the decision not to get decked or arrested.

“I’m going for a walk,” Jamie says, turns, and strides out of the bar. A half-dozen pairs of eyes follow him, but I keep mine on the angry guy, which is just Bar Fight 101.

The blond guy turns red and makes noises like an engine overheating, all that built-up hostile energy with nowhere to go. He’d kick a chair or turn over a table if there were any handy, but there aren’t, so he throws a defiant look at the bar in general and stalks off in the same direction Jamie went.

There’s a kind of general sigh, maybe disappointment, mostly from the businessmen, who’ve been on high alert, happy that something interesting is happening, something they can tell their wives about.

One of the businessmen catches my eye and raises an eyebrow. “Emotional, aren’t they?”

“People from New Zealand? I wouldn’t know.”

Of course it was obvious to me they were a couple. You only get that kind of deep, multi-layered hate going with family or lovers. Of course, it’s none of my business.

I uncrumple the bills Jamie left on the bar. There’s more than 40 dollars. A teacher can’t make much money, and he probably has no idea what American money is worth. And I’m worried, because that blond fucker was mad, and when you’re stressed and a long way from home things can happen that wouldn’t happen if there was someone to pull you back from the cliff.

So I pay my tab and Jamie’s, pocket his money (the bartender doesn’t notice), and head in the same direction as the other guys, which turns out to be out the side door of the hotel.

There’s not much out there--an alley between two tall buildings with an entrance to the parking garage. As places to have an argument go, the garage is a pretty good bet, huge and dimly lit and not even half full on the street level. I walk to the not-full side and see two figures in silhouette, one on the ground, one standing over it.

I break into a run. The tall figure sees me, hesitates for a second, and then turns and runs himself. As I close the distance I see longish blond hair flying and feel a strong desire to kick some surfer ass, but he vanishes into a stairwell and Jamie is lying on the ground, maybe needing help.

“Hey,” I roll him over and lay a hand on his cheek. There’s blood on his temple and the beginnings of a bruise on his cheekbone. “Can you hear me?” I can’t remember if it’s head injuries you’re not supposed to move or busted spines.

“Fine. I’m fine.” He sounds a little scratchy and dazed, but he pushes up onto his elbows. My heart is thumping, my brain still expecting a fight.

“Hold still. I’ll call an ambulance.”

“No need.” He makes a half-assed grab for my wrist as I reach for my phone. “He didn’t knock me out.”

“But still--”

“I know what I’m doing. I used to be an ambo driver.” He gets a blank look. “A paramedic, you’d call it.”

“Oh.” I put an arm under his elbow and help him to his feet. He’s a little wobbly, and also a big guy; tall as me, and broader, even if the way he carries himself--a little hunched over, in a shirt that’s too big--is meant to play it down. “I hope you gave as good as you got?”

“There’s nothing between me and Terry that a punch in the jaw will solve.”

“He didn’t think so.” I’m not a fighter, either, but it’s the only language those assholes understand.

“Yeah, well.” He looks almost embarrassed. “Listen, mate, thanks for the help, but there’s no need to involve you in this. Don’t worry about me, I’m all right really.”

“Okay, but--” I pull the wad of cash from my pocket. “You overpaid by about a thousand percent. Also, where are you staying?”

He stares open-mouthed at the cash and runs a hand through his hair. “Right. That’s a good point. I think the hotel's full up, but--”

“You can stay with me if you’d like.” I have no idea where that comes from. His being gay doesn’t really bother me--not so far, anyway--but my brain stalls out on how the offer must look to him. If he were a girl who’d just had a fight with her boyfriend it would be creepy, right? But there’s no chance I’d hit on him. But he doesn’t know that. “I’m not gay. Just so you know.”

The corners of his mouth curve up a little. “No worries, mate. I just broke up with my boyfriend in a car park, I’m completely knackered, and I have to be up at 7 AM. Not much of a threat to your virtue, if you get me.”

“I’m not worried. I already know you’re shit at fighting, anyway.” He starts to laugh and then winces and touches his cheek. I’m not regretting my offer at all. He seems like a decent guy for whom the shit has hit the fan late at night in a foreign country. For me, it’s just one of those weird things that happens on tour, more interesting than reruns of  _CSI_.

“My name’s Jamie, by the way,” he says, looking down at the name tag that’s still dangling around his neck. “In case you hadn’t worked it out.”

“I’m Rhett.”

“Seriously? Like Rhett Butler?”

“Yup.” My mom loved that movie. She liked Clark Gable but she had a special thing for Leslie Howard--my brother Les paid for that one.

I show him to my room and go to get some ice. When I come back, he’s stretched out--at least as far as he can be--on the little sofa, an arm draped over his head.

“Take the bed.” There’s only one, a king. “I’m used to sofas.”

“Me, too. I can’t take your bed, you’ve already gone above and beyond. Very nice advert for Americans, by the way.”

“Oh, please. Just get over here so I can get this ice on your face.” The kind of bruise you get from knuckles on your face looks like nothing else on the planet and I’m sure he knows it, but the ice will help. Maybe in the morning I can get hold of some of the stage makeup that I’m not supposed to know the Hardistons use.

He grunts and moves over to the bed, under the light where I can see the bruise developing, all nice and purple. I also get a better look at his face. He doesn’t look like anybody I’ve ever seen. His lips are full, like a girl’s, and his eyes turn from brown to green in the light. He could a model or an actor, except I’m guessing that the life would appeal to him about as much as being a teacher would appeal to me.

I bring him a hand towel and he wraps the ice up, neat and professional, and holds it against his face.

“A paramedic? You must have some stories.”

“Yeh, and a lot of them start in bars at 1 AM. No surprise, eh?”

I’m sitting on the edge of the bed next to him, a near stranger in my hotel room, but it doesn’t feel awkward at all. Part of it’s him, and part of it’s because fucked-up relationships are familiar territory, Prospect’s favorite pastime. Half of us are fuck ups, cheaters and brawlers; the other half enablers and fence menders and door mats. I’m done being either for a while, but I worry that it’s inside of me, like a skill for riding a fucked-up bicycle.

“So what do you do for a living?” Jamie says after a bit. “All I know about you is that you’re not gay.”

“What else do you need to know?” He smiles, as much as he can under three inches of towel and ice, which is good--he’s not a wallower, anyway. “I’m a musician.”

“Ah, the guitar.” Jamie nods toward it, leaning up against the TV stand. “You any good? What do you play?”

“Country music, mostly. Do you have that in New Zealand?”

“Nothing but sheep and cows from North Cape to the Bluff--what do you think?”

“I honestly don’t know. I’ve never been outside of the country. I want to. I want to travel more than anything. But at this point it’s mostly infields and civic centers.” I stop, because I’m not sure if he’s asking questions just to be polite. He obviously doesn’t want to talk about his problems, and I doubt he wants to hear about mine. “Want me to turn on the TV or something?”

“No thanks. What I’d really like is to hear you play a little.”

That surprises me because it seems personal, and then I’m surprised I see it that way. I play for thousands of people every night, after all. But I haven’t played for one person, alone, in a while. Not since Sam.

The pause goes on long enough that he puts up a hand and says, “That was rude, wasn’t it? You’re a professional. For all I know you’re famous in America.”

“I’m not quite famous yet anywhere. But I’ll play a little, if it’ll help.” I walk over to the mini bar and pull out a couple of beers. “This’ll probably help, too.”

“You’re a godsend, mate.”

I sit on the edge of the bed, at the end, one foot on the floor, like I’ve been playing since I was 12. I play low and quiet, even though I can tell the neighbors are awake--there’s thumping from next door and occasional female giggling. At least someone’s having a good night.

I strum for a little while, seeing what’ll pop into my head, and I’m surprised when it’s “The Backward Road.” I haven’t played it for anyone else, because it’s more rock than country, and because it’s about Sam, or at least more about her than the rest of my songs. It just seems like a good song for late at night. There’s a fifth verse that’s been rattling around for a while, and for some reason it comes together now

_Lost, I’m lost in space without a map_   
_If I asked you, would you tell me how to take it back?_   
_The backward road..._

Maybe not my best, but it’s what I feel like playing. I take my time, improvising between the verses, not looking at Jamie or anything else in particular.

When I play the last chord, I finally look up and see that Jamie has tears in his eyes. I feel bad and kind of pleased at the same time.

“Sorry,” he says, coughing, and wiping at his eyes as best as he can with a towel on his face. “You’re really good. You must sell a lot of records.”

It’s a compliment, and not just the way he means. “Were you with him a long time?”

He nods, chin a little shaky. “Eight months, but I had high hopes. I’ve always got high hopes.” He thumps the bed with his hand. “I don’t understand. What I want isn’t complicated. Everybody says they want love, but they know bugger all what they mean about it.”

“I can’t say I do either, but what I saw in that garage wasn’t it.”

“I’m well rid of him, I know.” He’s got a fistful of crumpled bedsheet, holding on for dear life. “It doesn’t feel that way, though. It feels like I’ve lost something important.”

There’s nothing I can say, so I do what I know how to do. I keep playing, just instrumentals, and after a while I see his eyelids drooping. I slide off the bed and put the guitar back in its case, and I’m halfway across the room when he starts awake.

“Hey. I’m not letting you take the sofa, remember?”

I try to wave it off but he’s off the bed already, unbuttoning his shirt. “Just let me drop my gear, all right? Down to boxers, is that okay?”

“Fine by me.” The sofa isn’t really a sofa, it’s a boxy love seat covered in the same beige sandpaper as every other fucking hotel sofa. We’ve both managed to act like decent human beings tonight, and so neither of us deserves a metal frame in the midsection. “You know, I’ve shared sleeping bags with guys before. Huntin’ buddies. My friend Wade won’t sit next to me in the movie theater, but he’ll zip his sleeping bag together with mine to stop from freezing his balls off.”

“Really?” Jamie tosses his shirt on the chest of drawers and goes for his belt buckle. “I hear you can get pregnant that way.” 

“Ha. Anyhow, I--” I point at the bed at the same moment his pants his the floor. “Well.”

He purses his lips and rolls his eyes toward the ceiling. “Just get in.”

“I have to change first.” And take a piss, which is a good excuse to change in the bathroom, which I now feel like a complete ass for doing. But _shit_ , it’s weird how not-weird it is. I come out in a T-shirt and the five-year-old striped PJ bottoms I wear on the road in case of fire alarms, which happen more often than you’d think.

Jamie’s already on his side with the light off--his left side, the non-bruised side, facing away from me. I click the other light out and try to adjust to the feeling of a large other person in the bed.

“G’night,” he says, already half asleep.

“ ‘Night.” The last thing though that goes through my head is  _I wonder if I’ll be able to get to sleep_.

+++++

I wake up with a dry mouth and the usual five seconds of  _where am I_. There’s no light leaking under the heavy curtains, so I guess it’s still before dawn, although hotels are one of those places like casinos that make a business of hiding what time it is.

I haven’t forgotten about Jamie, especially since his shin is touching mine. Technically it’s my fault, since I’m in the middle of the bed and he must be half hanging off the side, so I feel weird about jerking it away because it’s not like it’s burning, and I don’t want to wake him up.

After a few minutes, I hear the bed groan and he rolls halfway over.

“You awake?”

“Yeah.” His voice is husky and low, scratchy with sleep. There’s no point in moving now and besides, I don’t feel like it. I like the size and weight of him, the way he fills the bed, the warmth of another body in the stale icebox air of the hotel room, somebody to talk to. Why shouldn’t I do what I like, in the dark in an unknown city, where there’s nobody to see? I wait for Wade to show up like one of those little devils in a Bugs Bunny cartoon, sitting on my shoulder and reminding me he’d rather give his Terry Baker autographed football to Hillary Clinton than share a bed with another guy. Fuck him, though; it’s an experience, like the thunderstorm at the Kentucky State Fair. I played through that, too.

“Thanks,” he says after a while. He sounds tired, maybe a little low, like he’s been awake for a while, brooding. “Thanks for being a pal, and for being cool with this. If it hadn’t been for you, I’d’ve probably crashed out at the bus station or something.”

I think about it a little--what he’s not saying, and what I suspect. He’s an honest guy; he’ll tell me to fuck off if it’s too much, so I go ahead and ask.

“It’s not the first time he hit you, is it?”

A long pause, and he shifts, restless, like he’s itchy with memories. “No. It wasn’t often, but each time I thought he I knew the reason. I thought I could figure him out and change it, stop it. Because if I loved him enough, or if I was a good enough counselor, I could do it. And I screwed it up anyway.”

“I know the feeling.” I know the feeling of putting everything you own in garbage bags and driving away, of blowing the audition to the be the man in somebody’s life. “But he was the asshole who failed, not you.”

He digests that for a while, not believing yet, but it’s still important to say.

“I never asked. If you have anyone yourself.” His voice is so close. Secrets in the dark, something I’ve always liked. And laughing, but now’s not the time.

“I was in love with a girl. With her for two years. She had a daughter I loved like my own kid. She dumped me and went back to her ex the day we were supposed to leave town together."

“Bugger. That’s rough.”

“Yeah. Bad for life, great for songwriting.” Half the songs on my album are about Sam, but not in a way that will make her feel bad, I hope.

“It’s hard to imagine anyone leaving you.” A polite thing to say, since he doesn’t know anything about me. I tried so hard with Sam; I became a father and a guy with a shitty regular job and I waited two years to go to Nashville, and it ended up no different than if I’d been a pig from the beginning.

“I know. I make really good waffles.” I stretch, and wrap my arms around my pillow, under my head. My elbow brushes up against Jamie’s hair, and it’s soft. Still not bothered, because there’s no way I can imagine him making a move on me, and if he did, my elbow’s conveniently near his eye.

“What the fuck’s wrong with us?”

I know that cry of desperation, of a billion lonely people: _I deserve_ _love, so where the fuck is it?_ But love isn’t a thing that shows up like a migrating bird; it’s something two people create, plus maybe chemicals or sunspots or some science shit I don’t understand.

I can’t answer, so I don’t. After a while he says, “Pretty clear what’s wrong with me. I pack a sad off two beers and a punch in the face, and a handsome cowboy invites me into his bed and I cry all over it. Awful.” He rolls back onto his left side, away from me. “I’ll sleep now, I promise. Least I don’t snore.”

He’s not feeling better, he’s feeling guilty and pathetic, sad and  _ugly_ , the way I get when I cry--red-faced and snotty, a distant relation to that guy on the album cover looking clear-eyed to the distant mountains. I wonder what the daytime version of Jamie is like: wearing a white shirt and tie, giving talks full of medical terms, being all calm and confident with people who’ve just gotten bad news. I can totally imagine him as an EMT, soaking up everybody’s panic and making them think everything’s going to be okay. He’s got the kind of strength that comes from being honest with yourself, and right now he’s honestly a guy who got confirmation the person he loves is an asshole.

Rolling onto my left side brings me about six inches away from Jamie’s back, as near as I can tell. I reach out my hand and let it hover just above his arm, where it’s curled around his body.

“Hey,” I say quietly. “This okay?”

He seems to know what “this” is, even if I don’t. “Yeh, it’s nice. Carry on.”

I let my hand come to rest on his shoulder and slide in closer, not quite touching, but near enough that he can feel the heat of my body. He shifts back just a little, relaxes the not-touching-you muscles, and sighs. I let my hand slide down, everything safe territory because he’s a guy, nothing but arms and chest and space. And now I have my arm and most of my body around a guy, and nobody’s breaking down the door or putting the video on YouTube. All that’s happening is the guy is calming down and falling asleep.

This? This is something that could never happen in Prospect. It can only happen in a hotel room in city that might be Atlanta, between a country musician on tour and a medical whatever from the south side of the world. It can happen because we’re good guys when other people aren’t, dedicated to not making the world suck any more than it has to. I like making waffles for people and I like playing them music, and if that makes me a hero, well then, buy my album. Just don’t expect me to give up this little bit of freedom, because I’ve been waiting a long time for it. We all have.


End file.
